The crisp morning the daughters left for school
hair gleaming, poised barrettes, arms swaying,
alert. Inside I turned my mind to Snow White
and just what that stepmother was doing there.

Late one afternoon, an expedition
to the doll house factory brought home
the charm of small things in our world.
The minute to-scale broom and dustpan,

The canned goods, flower pot, and shovel.
The fists of girls clutching brown sacks,
Rustling wrinkled dollar bills, clinking
falling copper. Never heeding my call.

The movie starts fifteen minutes from here.
Limping, they spat, navigated cracks
on the reluctant sidewalk, and whined,
Why can’t you drive us to the theater?

The stale black hole crept out to meet us: inside
cardboard popcorn, cherubs plastered to the walls.
In single file, we creaked into seats of dusty velvet

Like a partial string of pearls— some faded
— some bright— we chomped on sweets,
swallowed previews. Fear in the whites of
the eyes of those girls glowed pure bright

As the stepmother’s fractured mirror lit up
like the shadows of a thin crescent moon.
The older girls sway back and forth to music:
someday my prince will come, incessant pointing

At the bulge in those too noble tights, choking on
licorice, gulping lemonade, their shoulders quaking.
The girls of nine and ten hold still, spines straight,
careful not to drop their chins, only their eyes traverse

The giant screen, Their hands freeze amidst the
popcorn. On my lap, the youngest in a sweat,
her jaw invades my chest, her fingers clutch my arm,
to escape the whirlwind of the stepmother’s fury,
aiming to re-enter my belly.

Why me?

I know the power of this witch who turns the seasons.
Who else prepares the maidens for the prince?
Who cuts the cord?
Who else will feel like this?